


Don't tell me your name

by SeaWitch



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-13
Updated: 2017-01-13
Packaged: 2018-09-17 06:06:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9308654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SeaWitch/pseuds/SeaWitch
Summary: What does one do when one longs for the unattainable?





	

She moves above me, sliding cool hands beneath the linen of my shirt. Her mouth brushes against my own, against my throat, the scant expanse of my chest that is revealed through the laces.  
  
It has become my monthly ritual.   
  
I bathe, rinsing the dank scent of the dungeons and the acridity of my potions from my hair as though arraying myself for a lover. I dress in my finest attire, though they mimic the stark formality of my teaching robes. I steal from my quarters and across the grounds, with as much stealth and shame as I once ceded to the call of my Dark Lord.   
  
I move among the crowd of revellers with deliberate pace. There is only one that I seek, and if that one cannot be found, then I will return to my quarters. Through the flashing jewels and shimmering fabrics I catch a glimpse of Slytherin green silk.  
  
The slender body of an athlete, tousled dark curls, refined, exquisitely chiselled features. I catch her eye, and she moves towards me with the unconscious economy of motion that first attracted my notice. She inclines her head in greeting, revealing a graceful throat and takes my proffered arm with a smile. Here, I am the consummate gentleman. She leads me from the salon to our usual room.  
  
She knows what I require, and dims the lights. She removes my outer robes and jacket easily and without unseemly haste, loosening the laces of my shirt with nimble fingers. Slowly, she directs me to the bed, turning her back to slip out of the silk robes. I do not try to determine the thoughts that flicker within her liquid green eyes, but I know that she can read my own – not completely, but enough, just enough …  
  
She moves over me, her body boyishly slender, the low lighting just enough to cast the illusion that it is  _that_  face looking at me. The face that haunts my dreams, leaving my sheets soaked and my body trembling as though wracked with unceasing fever.   
  
She moves above me, sliding cool hands beneath the linen of my shirt. Her mouth brushes against my own, against my throat, the scant expanse of my chest that is revealed through the laces.  
  
Relief, when it comes, is both too much and not enough.  
  
She strokes my hair, my head pillowed upon her shoulder, green eyes soft with understated compassion. Sooty eyelashes flutter closed for a moment before she slides from the bed and dresses. She faces away from me, allowing me to gather myself, to dress and reassume my equilibrium.   
  
I place the pouch of coins on the stand beside the door, and look back at her for a moment. I do not know her name, and the question dies unspoken as she quirks an eyebrow and shakes her head.  
  
Once outside again, away from the warmth of the salon, the night’s chill seems harsher. I clutch my cloak tighter, and make my way back to my quarters. The dungeons are silent as a tomb, cold and still. The fire in my chambers does not warm me at all as I prepare for bed, crawling between the cold sheets, the sensation of skin against skin already fading.  
  
A languid wave, and the candle beside my bed is snuffed out. One would think that sleep would come easier now, but the image of that face floats before me in the darkness.  _That face_ , smiling, laughing, twisted in anger, scowling, in pain, blossoming with affection. A myriad of emotions that are not for me, that will never be for me.  
  
There will be no respite for me tonight, no cessation of the images that twine around my sleeping mind. No satiation of the obsession that torments my nights and drives me to distraction during the day.   
  
No rest for the wicked.

**Author's Note:**

> First uploaded to OWL these long ages past, where I wrote under the name indigofeathers - so don't worry, not stealing another author's words, just playing in JKR's backyard and putting her characters through the wringer.


End file.
